


Tangent Lines

by SapphyValentine



Category: Prometheus (2012)
Genre: AU, All-Human, Introspection, Mentions of Prostitution, Multi, escort!David, research fellow!Elizabeth, slight OOC David?, tw: mentions of noncon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-06
Updated: 2015-07-28
Packaged: 2018-03-21 15:19:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3697175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SapphyValentine/pseuds/SapphyValentine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As she reaches for her clothes, David wonders if he is like a tangent line— to be infinitely close, but never truly touch.</p><p>And certainly never intersect.</p><p>—</p><p>[In which David is an elite escort, Elizabeth is a research fellow, and both somehow live in Washington, D.C.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 0.5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my first Prometheus fic, and my first fic posted on AO3! Woohoo! 
> 
> I have no idea how long this story will be, though I expect it to have multiple chapters. 
> 
> Also, this is in no way condoning or condemning the escort and/or the prostitution industry— by no means am I saying that if someone wanted to pursue that profession, they shouldn't. To each their own.
> 
> On that note, forgive any mistakes I make in regards to portraying the escort business. I am not an expert and have done only rudimentary research, so misinformation is inevitable. Let me know if I make any truly terrible grievances. Thanks, y'all.

* * *

 

**Prologue**

  

 

 

 

 

"There may be honor among thieves, but there's none in politicians."

So David quoted to himself as he prepared for another "date" with another person in another place. He often found himself reminiscing over the past, especially after a phone call from his agency, asking him to contact his next client post-haste. This time, it was a politician looking for company during his business trip in London. It would be a weekend-long excursion.

London...his former home. 

 _No, it's best not to think of that._ But he thought all the same. 

He hoped no one would recognize him, though he doubted the possibility. It had been years since his fall from grace, years since his half-sister cut him off completely following their father's death. As he straightened his tie, he could almost picture himself as he was before: resplendent, successful, geared to take over his father's multibillion technology corporation (they were just starting research on synthetic persons). He was David  _Weyland_ then. 

His daydream faded, and he was just David. Mr. Eight. Companion, date, lover, friend.

An _escort_.

 

* * *

 

  

 _This one wasn't so bad_ , David thought. But really, for nearly thirty thousand American dollars, he had no say in  _good_ or  _bad._ It was work, it was money, and it was what he was fucking _good_ at.

He laughed a bit at the last part of his internal monologue.  _Fucking._ In the end, that's what most of them wanted. To fuck, or to be fucked. He was worth ten bucks a minute—six hundred an hour, and from what his clients said, he was worth every goddamn penny.

But sometimes, there was no sex involved at all (legally, there never was). Sometimes, it was a lonely soul wanting to connect, wanting to be loved. And he put on the greatest show of affection that ever was. Oh yes, there was a reason he could make five thousand a night, and it was because he could perfectly simulate friendship, lust, _love_. He was better than all of Hollywood's actors, better than any dime-a-dozen prostitute with press-on nails or cheap cologne. 

He was Mr. Eight, the man of one's dreams, and he could become the man of one's deepest and most secretive desires. 

His client, a Senator Finch, rolled away from him on the bed and continued snoring. 

 _Not bad at all,_ David continued to think, flashbacks of other encounters coming unwittingly to the forefront of his mind. Women screaming their release while ruby red nails gouged his sides, intoxicated men smelling of cigars and whiskey brutally rutting him from behind, and when he was a beginner, someone taking him hard against the hood of an old Cadillac, no lube, no cash and no consent. He asked for payment up front since then.

David glanced at the clock on the hotel nightstand. It read 20:00. _8_ _:00 PM,_   _almost time to leave for the redeye back to D.C._ He and his client had spent one day and two nights together, and while his client had gone away to a business meeting, David had been free to explore his former home. It was the same grey, drab city with perpetual clouds, but it was special, and it was his, once.

 _20:03._ Well, he had enjoyed himself. And thirty thousand dollars ensured that he had enjoyed himself  _immensely._ As David sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed, his partner stirred.

"Eight, is it time to go?" Finch asked sleepily, stretching his arms above his head and yawning.

Using a soothing, gentle tone, David replied, "Yes sir, our flight takes off in three hours. We should consider leaving in the next half hour, you know how airport security is." He flashed Finch a dazzling smile, inspiring a chuckle in the other man.

"Don't I ever! Well, how about a shower before we get dressed...?" Finch said slyly, eyes darkening in anticipation, mouth smirking slightly.

David returned the smirk, and said the only thing thirty grand allowed him to say.

"Yes. Of course."  

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> David's background will be fully elaborated on later. I'm trying to leave things a bit vague for now. Elizabeth will make her grand entrance in the next chapter, I guarantee it! ;) This chapter was just to set the stage for everything. 
> 
> Feel free to leave comments!


	2. 1.0

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If y'all are wondering whether this is set in the future, it is, just maybe around 2020 or so. :P Futuristic stuff is hard to write about, and I think I'd be inconsistent.

* * *

 

 

As Elizabeth hurried through Heathrow International Airport, she did not feel a thing.

Or rather, she chose to not to. Because to feel would be to surrender to her incompetency, to be  _weak._ And Dr. Elizabeth Shaw was not weak.

A polite voice chimed from above ( _where are the goddamn speakers, anyway?_  Elizabeth wondered), "Flight 5102, Heathrow to Dulles International departing in ten minutes."

"Shit," Elizabeth muttered, maneuvering around people on cellphones, wallowing children and embracing couples. She recalled packing the last of her things, most of which fit in one suitcase, only to glance at her watch and realize the time—21:45, and her flight left at 23:00. It seemed as though only moments later she was in the hired cab, frantically running through checklist after checklist, assuring herself that everything was in order. 

_Storage locker key? Check._

_Cellphone? Check._

_Necessary papers? Check. Double check._

_Father's cross...? Check._

Almost unconsciously, her hand drifted to her collarbones, between which the cross proudly hung, gently swinging with every step.  _The one constant in her life._ Well, at least in theory. The person behind it was gone...

Just liker her mother.  _Just like Charlie..._

There was a crack in the dam; the floodgates were opening— _And the rain was upon the earth forty days and forty nights._

Elizabeth did not feel... 

Elizabeth did not...should not...

She suddenly stopped, suitcase coming to a halt beside her, handbag hanging limply by her side. Tears struggling to contain themselves reluctantly trailed down her face, following every curve and angle until they could cling no longer, and fell to the ground in silence.

Charlie had always said that no one loved her like  _he_ loved her, and maybe that was true. Maybe that's why he betrayed her, with women, and then in death _._  Maybe all the people she loved died because there was something intrinsically wrong with her, and God was punishing her innate toxicity.  _Maybe she was just unlovable._

"Excuse me, miss, are you first-class?"

Elizabeth flinched and turned to see a startlingly handsome man, mouth turned down in a slight frown, and eyes (so  _blue_ ) looking down at her with an odd juxtaposition of polite concern and apathy. Another man, slightly older, was scowling next to him, checking his watch exaggeratedly. Only then did Elizabeth realize she was at her gate, standing directly in the middle of the VIP queue, where people in suits were beginning to line up.

With as much poise as she could manage, Elizabeth replied, "No, my apologies. I must have been in the wrong line." She quickly hurried away, dragging her suitcase behind her, and found the back of the "economy plus" queue. She glanced up to watch the man from before, blonde hair neatly parted and suit crisply tailored, turn to the older bloke behind him and make a small comment, both subsequently laughing at whatever had been said.

Elizabeth's heart gently stuttered upon seeing his smile. It might have been the loveliest she had ever seen, but she swiftly dismissed that thought as ridiculous. _  
_

 _He must be some businessman_ , she speculated distractedly as the blond and his companion had their tickets scanned by the flight hostess. They went on to board the plane, neither sparing a glance behind them.

Having now composed herself from earlier, Elizabeth focused on how she planned to spend the next eight hours. Sleeping, probably, but sleeping meant dreaming, and dreaming meant unwanted memories. So she mentally opted to read her favorite book,  _the_ Book, and settled into her spot in line while all the VIPs boarded the plane. 

Elizabeth did not feel a thing. But with one smile—not even directed at her— she maybe felt, well... _something._  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is starting way slower than I originally imagined, but I do have a plan! Now that we've met Elizabeth (more on her background later), the next chapter will focus solely on our favorite couple. ;) 
> 
> If you see any typos, hmu.


	3. 2.0

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies about the late upload. This summer has been the busiest (and the most stressful) time of my life thus far, but I do hope to get a regular posting schedule going. Anyhow, I hope you enjoy!

 

* * *

 

The flight was tolerable enough, though David wished he hadn't checked his baggage. His standard was to carry on his luggage, but his client had  _insisted_ it was too much of a hassle to haul a suitcase around— especially with David's "delicate" bone structure.  _I swear Eight, you're so fucking flawless, you're like an, uh, an android or something! No offense. I'd hate to ruin your_ perfect _body, y'know,_ the senator had teasingly crooned before handing David's Louis Vuitton suitcase to the luggage clerk eight hours prior.

Internally, David sighed. He was a man of thirty-five, but clients loved to treat him like a delicate child (that is, when they weren't fucking him). But he chastised himself mentally, arguing that as long as he got his money, they could treat him however the hell they wanted. But perhaps he was simply rationalizing; David recalled a scene in _Lawrence of Arabia,_ where Peter O'Toole's character was discussing killing two people and enjoying it, much to his apprehension. Maybe David was not so different— he knew he should feel ashamed, but to have people fawning over him, well, "The best of them won't come for money; they'll come for me." Quoth T.E. Lawrence.

Shaking himself from his thoughts, David wondered if he was at the wrong terminal (it was a miracle _anyone_ knew their way around this airport). Senator Finch had gone to find the restroom, so David was tasked with looking for their luggage. Impatience was starting to creep in when the conveyer belt finally stuttered to life and began spitting out suitcases. Immediately, he was on alert for his uniquely patterned valise, congratulating himself on his choice of luggage, for no one else would have a three-thousand dollar bag like his, even the other well-to-do travelers.

Ten minutes had passed (during which he had already claimed Finch's things) when David spotted his suitcase making its way toward him. He prepared himself to grab it and go, but a small hand reached through the crowd and whisked his LV bag away before he could even try to stop it.

Immediately, David felt acutely irritated. It may have been the jet-lag, it may have been the booze from the flight, but David was irate at the thought of having to deal with a common pedestrian, especially one who thought  _his_  luxury was theirs to take.

Making his way through the crowd—all whilst hauling Finch's duffel bag, he should add— David approached the interloper, eyes focusing in on his valise.

"Excuse me, but that's my suitcase," he stated.

The body turned, hand tightening on the handle of the luggage, and a small voice replied, "No, I believe it's mine. Sorry."

David's gaze traveled upwards, skimming over a North Face fleece and a golden cross proudly hung around a slender neck, to a feminine face that he had seen before.

_It's the woman from before._

_The one in the wrong queue._

_The one who had tears in her eyes._

The last thought came unbidden to his mind, and he briefly wondered why he had remembered that detail at all, before he shot back, "Ma'am, look at the luggage tag. I'll assure you it says—" 

"Elizabeth. Elizabeth Shaw." The woman smiled and slowly grasped the tag, turning it over so David could read it.

He grinned when he saw the name, and turned the tag around once again so this  _Elizabeth Shaw_ could see what was written there. He watched as reality widened her eyes and stained her sharp cheekbones a rosy hue. Oddly, he found himself slightly distracted by her expression, so much so that is was too late to undo his mistake.

He had let her read his personal information. 

 _Shit,_ David frantically thought,  _I hope she doesn't remember any of it. She speaks with a posh accent...maybe she's just a tourist?_

"Oh, oh my, I'm very sorry, Mr., ehm, Mr. Eight? Yes, I'm sorry, I thought no one else had a suitcase like this, I don't know what I was thinking! You see, I'm here as a research—"

David quickly cut her off, smiling politely whilst assuring, "It's fine. Really. But, miss, I must get going now, so—"

"Wait," Elizabeth interrupted, "it said on your luggage tag you lived in Prometheus Village. I just moved here from London and I was given a flat in the Prometheus area by Weyland Industries, my job, you see, so would you mind giving me directions, possibly? I know I could ring a cab, but ehm..." She trailed off, gesturing her hand around awkwardly.

David froze, smile stuck on his face. Had he heard her right? Never mind that this woman was staying at the most expensive neighborhood in the capital, but she worked for  _his dead father's company?_

He was about to answer, or if he was honest, about to _interrogate_ her (did she work for his goddamn sister?), when Finch appeared, grumbling about the indignity of public restrooms. David quickly turned to his client, and politely said, "Senator Finch, it seems as though there's been a bit of a mix up. Miss Shaw here confused my luggage with hers. Now that we've sorted that out, shall we be on our way?" Finch didn't reply, but he nodded with slight disinterest, not remembering Elizabeth from before. It seemed as though he too was short of patience. 

Turning back to the woman in question, David simply said, "The cabby will know where to take you. Have a good day." Finding the handle of his suitcase, David inclined his head in acknowledgement and walked away with Finch. Their chauffeur would be waiting, and he didn't want to dwell on the implications of Miss Shaw moving into his neighborhood any longer than necessary. He was successful, making fucking millions a year, and he didn't need any reminders of his past life, of his past dreams. Did he even have dreams of his own any more? He didn't know. Were his dreams his own in the first place? He didn't know the answer to that, either.

David had a feeling he would see Elizabeth again, and he hated that he was almost looking forward to it. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'Prometheus Village' and its subsequent location are based on the NW quadrant of D.C., specifically the Georgetown neighborhood. It's exceedingly expensive to live there (believe me, I _know_ lol).


End file.
